


Take My Hand Through the Flames

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [24]
Category: Justice League of America (Comics)
Genre: (Owlman's partner not the undead assassin), Anal Sex, Choking, Crazy Dick Grayson, Dark Dick Grayson, Dark Joseph Wilson, Death Threats, Earth-3, Face-Fucking, Good Slade Wilson, Hate Sex, M/M, Manhandling, Masochist Dick Grayson, Murder, President Slade Wilson, SladeRobin Weekend, SladeRobin Weekend 2020, Teen Dick Grayson, Violent Thoughts, but it's taken as foreplay so is it really a threat?, dick grayson is talon, enemies who fuck, very brief Animal Abuse of a rat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Talon, Owlman's right hand, breaks into the White House.This is not the first time he's done this.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Joseph Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Sladick Fics [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307747
Comments: 33
Kudos: 218
Collections: SladeRobin Weekend 2020





	Take My Hand Through the Flames

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Weekend 2020 Day 2: Accidental Co-Parenting | Abduction/Kidnapping | **Earth 3**
> 
> Title from _Sucker for Pain_ by Lil' Wayne et al

Dick will admit that he rather likes breaking into places.

He _especially_ likes breaking into places that pride themselves on being impossible to break into.

There's no assassination of the agenda for tonight, which is usually a bit of a bummer, but he has other things to bring his spirits up. Besides, maybe some secret service agent will be (un)lucky enough to stumble across their intruder and Dick'll get to cut someone down anyway. He couldn't be truly blamed for that, could he? He's only covering his tracks, after all. Thomas would understand.

Not that Thomas would approve of these break-ins of Dick's of course. Dick tries to comfort himself by saying that Thomas has to know about them because Thomas knows _everything,_ and since he hasn't said anything that's his form of acceptance. But really, if his father knew about this, there would be a punishment. A rather severe one.

Now, mind you, Dick's not _against_ punishments—he likes pain as much as the next killer—but still. A punishment means he's done something wrong, and Thomas disapproves, and Thomas is disappointed in him. Dick would rather none of that happen.

So, these visits remain a secret.

Just like always, it's extremely easy to get into the Executive Residence. He slinks past secret service agents and through camera blind spots, doing his best to be completely unnoticed—after all, he's not the only one keeping these meetings quiet. He'd hate to ruin that.

Right _now,_ at least. It might be fun to do sometime. Right now, he already has a plan, and gaining attention from the wrong sort is the _last_ thing he needs.

He peeks his head into the daughter's room because he can, sees her passed out and spread starfish on her bed. He looks into the son's room next, and finds it empty, which makes him smile; he knows what the boy gets up to when he sneaks out of the house, and he wonders how long it'll take before daddy catches on. _That_ will be an exciting day.

It's just past two in the morning, when any reasonable person should be in bed, but Dick bypasses the master bedroom completely; the only person in there is an unaware first lady, not his target.

As expected, the light is on under the door of the small study. He turns the handle slowly and pushes the door open, stepping inside on silent feet.

Not that it matters much; the man in the room is partially facing the door where he sits in a comfortable-looking armchair, so the motion immediately has his attention, gaze snapping up, going tense in automatic preparation for a fight.

As soon as he identities who it is, however, he relaxes partially. Never completely, no, Slade Wilson is not an idiot. He won't ever completely put his guard down around Dick, just like Dick would never dare around Slade, either.

"Hi there," Dick greets pleasantly, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. "Funny meeting you here."

Slade puts down the file in his hand on the small table next to him, and half-closes the laptop perched on his legs. "Talon," he returns levelly, and Dick makes a face.

"Yeesh, formal much?" Dick complains. "And here I thought we were _friends."_

Slade looks unimpressed. "You killed five people yesterday," he says, voice flat.

Dick thinks about it. "Huh, yeah, I guess I did." He bats his eyelashes and bites his lip, knowing it'll irritate the other man. "Did you like it?"

Sure enough, Slade's jaw ticks in irritation. He closes his laptop all the way and places it on top of the file.

Dick pushes off of the door and strolls forward, glancing around. The room is the same as it was all the other times he's been here, except for—he smiles when he sees that the picture on the north wall has been replaced, the one his back got shoved up against the last time he was here. It makes Dick wonder how Slade went about replacing that; it's not like he could admit that the assassin Talon broke in and the picture frame got smashed to pieces when he slammed him against the wall to fuck him silly.

Somehow, Dick doesn't think that would go over too well.

"Aren't you wondering why I'm here?" Dick asks innocently. Slade snorts.

"Should I?" the president asks. "I'm past the point of being surprised when you show up, Talon. You'll do what you like no matter what any of us say. Not like I could stop you from coming in here."

Dick smiles widely. "Flatterer."

He's not wrong, either. In the beginning, the first time Dick broke in here, Slade called for reinforcements immediately to attempt to capture him. Unsuccessful, of course, and ended in the deaths of four secret service agents and one poor secretary working late. The second time, Slade attempted (and very nearly managed) to take him down himself, and wasn't _that_ an exciting night. Dick just barely dragged himself away.

The third time, Dick broke specifically into little Rose's bedroom while the girl was sleeping to prove a point, and was gone like a ghost by the time Slade came running into the room, leaving one of his knives behind on the pillow as a small taunt.

The fourth time, Slade tried to pretend he wasn't there at all, and then stabbed him when he wouldn't shut up.

Break-in Number Five was the first time they fucked. Slade dislocated his shoulder and slammed his head against the table hard enough that he saw stars.

It was a good goddamn night.

"I have a gift for you," Dick says pointedly, and his clear innuendo is rewarded with a snort and roll of an eye. But Dick puts a hand to his chest in mock offense anyway. "Slade Wilson, get your mind out of the gutter! I do mean an _actual_ gift. It's a special day, after all."

He reaches into his belt—enjoying the slight tensing of Slade's muscles in response—and pulls out a small flash drive, then tosses it to the president. Slade catches it from the air and looks it over with a critical eye before cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Should I be worried about it blowing up?" Slade asks flatly.

Dick smirks. "I forwent the bombs this time. Bad form to blow up the birthday boy, after all. Don't worry, you'll like it."

He really, _really_ will. The Crime Syndicate continues to be a giant pain in Slade's ass, and on that flash drive is the location of one of Ultraman's private residences, the one where he keeps some of his weird Kyptonian relics. Kal-El has been particularly insufferable lately, irritating Thomas to no end, and they've been discussing a way to give Kal a slap on the wrist. Just enough to remind him that he's a Team Player and not the sole ruler.

So this is two birds with one stone; shake Kal-El up a little bit, and give Slade a bit of an edge on a Kryptonian as a birthday present. Never let it be said that Dick isn't _thoughtful._

Slade nods and slides the flash drive into his pocket. "Anything else?"

Dick pouts. "You know, when someone brings you a gift, it's customary to say _thank you."_

Slade just watches him dispassionately, and Dick rolls his eyes. "Christ, what crawled up _your_ ass today?"

"Maybe you're simply not as entertaining as you think you are."

Dick narrows his eyes, irritated, but smiles brightly, knowing the dichotomy has a tendency to freak people out. Not that Slade is just anybody, but he still knows what a threat Dick is, and they're only a few doors down from the slumbering Adeline, vulnerable in sleep, and then the _very_ vulnerable seven-year-old girl just a little bit further away. Dick isn't above hurting either of them to get a response out of Slade, even if that response is to try to beat him senseless.

Well, okay, probably _especially_ if that response is to try to beat him senseless. Fantastic sex tends to follow fantastic fights.

"How's the fam?" Dick drawls, and Slade's fingers twitch. _There_ they are, on the right track. "Rose cut her hair short, I saw. Looks cute! Though sleeping with it wet won't do her any favors."

The slightest narrowing of Slade's eye. Dick loves this part, how Slade _knows_ that Dick's just trying to get a rise out of him but it's still going to work anyway, because for such a powerful man his weak spots are blindingly obvious, and so very easy to manipulate.

Dick's keeping Joey Wilson in his back pocket for the day it'll _really_ hurt Slade to find out about. Maybe he can get Joey to take over Slade's body, and the "three" of them can have some fun.

Damn. The idea alone makes some blood rush south.

Note to self—have to make that happen. Not like it'll be _hard,_ or anything. Joey's got a bit of a crush, and for someone who really likes possessing and murdering people, he's surprisingly naïve in a way. He'll probably do it if Dick asks nicely, like while balls deep inside him.

Joey's no Slade, but the Wilson genes apparently run strong, and Dick doesn't have any complaints. He only wishes he could've met the other son before he got himself killed.

"I actually have work to do," Slade tells him coolly.

Dick widens his eyes with exaggerated surprise. "What? But it's your _birthday!_ That should be against the rules."

"Technically, my birthday ended over two hours ago," Slade points out.

Dick waves a hand in the air. "Semantics. And you should be pleased I'm only here _now_ and didn't come strolling in the front doors at dinnertime to give you your present on your _actual_ birthday. I doubt your wife would've been overly fond of _that."_

"I doubt your master would've been either," Slade returns calmly.

Dick stiffens at the mention of Thomas and his inevitable disappointment when he learns about this. Slade's lips curl slightly in a cruel smirk, seeing his words hit where they were supposed to.

"He isn't my master," Dick corrects, baring his teeth in a smile. "Owlman and I are partners."

Slade actually laughs at him. "Sure," he agrees indulgently. _"Partners._ That's why when he says _jump_ you ask _how high,_ and then ask _what else can I do for you while I'm jumping?_ Like a puppy, begging for a pat on the head from its owner."

Dick feels coiled tight, eyes narrowed, still smiling that not-really-a-smile. "Loyalty doesn't mean subservience."

"No it doesn't," Slade agrees, but there's something _mean_ in his eyes that says he's not done. "But considering the fact that you'd get on your knees and beg for his cock if he told you to, I think that goes a _bit_ past regular loyalty."

The knife is in Dick's hand and flying through the air before he's even consciously aware of it. Slade is ready though, having expected the attack, and ducks his head to the side, the knife burying itself in the material of the chair right behind where his remaining eye would've been.

Slade's standing now, stance prepared but not in an actively defensive or offensive way. He looks faintly pleased with himself.

"That wasn't very nice," Slade tuts. Dick sneers at him. "And here I thought there was a _rule_ about attacking people on their birthdays."

"Oh of _course,"_ Dick breathes mockingly. _"My bad._ Here, why don't I make it up to you?" He looks up at Slade through his eyelashes, running his tongue over his lips. "I'm no Marilyn Monroe, but...

"Happy birthday, Mr. President," Dick coos, drifting closer, trailing his fingers along the top of the couch. "Happy birthday to you..."

Slade catches the first blade he throws, ducks to avoid the second, and is ready for a fight when Dick is close enough to throw a punch.

The fight is everything Dick wants from it, sharp and vicious and brutal, and by the time ~~Slade pins him~~ he _lets_ Slade pin him to the floor, his lip is bleeding, his chest aches in a way that predicts at least bruised ribs, his arm is stinging from a nerve strike, and the back of his head is throbbing from how hard he hit it against the hardwood floor. It all hurts so _good,_ and only gets better when Slade's fingers dig into his wrists where they're pinned above his head, his knees digging into Dick's sides and providing excellent pressure on his already injured ribs.

"What now, _Mr. President?"_ Dick goads, so very close, and feels like crowing when Slade's eye darkens.

Slade kisses him, biting Dick's lips and making Dick keen as his teeth rip the cut open even further. He forces his tongue into his mouth and Dick bites down on it just to see what Slade will do, and then grins when one of Slade's hands comes down to grab Dick's jaw with bruising strength. He pins it in place, forcing Dick to just let Slade do what he wants without being able to reciprocate or fight, and it's _glorious,_ it always is.

Thomas hasn't been able to figure out how President Slade Wilson got his enhancements, but the top theory is during his time in the military. Not that they can find any record of anything that would give Slade the gifts he now possesses.

Not that Dick's complaining. He certainly enjoys the benefits; there's nothing quite like fucking someone with super strength, the pure _helplessness_ that comes when they've really got you pinned. Dick isn't an easy person to beat or pin, so when someone manages it, especially to this level...

Maybe Dick's got a bit of a kink about it. But honestly, who _wouldn't?_

Dick moans encouragingly when Slade shifts to press his knee against Dick's crotch, just this side of too painful.

"I would be doing the world a favor if I snapped your neck right now," Slade murmurs. "It would be so easy." His hand tightens even further on Dick's jaw, as if to prove the point, and Dick just _knows_ that with just a _smidge_ more pressure, Slade could shatter his jaw.

He wonders if he's supposed to be afraid for his life right now, instead of turned on. Probably. But then again, Slade's always had a fucked up brand of foreplay. It's why they meld so well together.

"Yeah," Dick agrees, and spreads his legs a little further. The shift rolls Slade's knee against Dick's clothed cock and he groans, pleased at the hint of friction. "Yeah, you could. And if I had your healing, I'd probably ask you to."

Slade shakes his head, the curl of his lips somewhere between disgusted and fascinated. Dick's not lying, either; if he knew he could heal from a snapped neck, he'd _absolutely_ want Slade to do it, preferably while in the midst of fucking him. What a jolt to the system that would be.

Ah well. Wishful thinking.

"So," Dick says, smiling the best he can with his jaw held the way it is, rolling his hips upward, "what's next, big boy?"

Usually he has to goad Slade into this, is the thing. Because Slade Wilson truly isn't a nice man, and there could probably be an argument made about whether or not he's a _good_ one, but he is the president and he _is_ dedicated to protecting the country and taking down the Crime Syndicate. Regularly fucking Talon doesn't really vibe well with all of that. But he can't catch Dick, not really, so the anger has to come out somewhere. Dick just tries to direct it towards... _productive_ activities.

(If you catch his heavy wink, that is.)

Slade kisses him again, just as harsh as before, and Dick ruts up against him, encouraging the motion. "C'mon, Mr. President," he purrs into the other man's mouth, "give it to me."

"Do you ever shut up?" Slade snaps, and Dick laughs breathlessly.

"There's one surefire way to make me," Dick tells him, voice layered in innuendo. Slade rolls his eye, but both of his hands tighten around Dick's wrists and jaw, showing what he thinks of that idea.

Sure enough, Slade gets off of him, but pulls Dick up as he does, forcing the younger man up onto his knees, hand tight in Dick's hair to the point of pain. Dick yanks against the grip just to see what happens, and is rewarded with an actual slap across the face. He blinks, surprised, and then laughs again, tongue darting out to lick at the growing cut splitting his lip.

 _"There_ we are," Dick grins, cheek throbbing.

"You ever realize how messed up in the head you are?" Slade asks him, almost mildly.

"Yup," Dick chirps, "It's part of my _charm._ Besides, I don't think the guy about to shove his dick down my throat gets to complain."

Slade doesn't reply, instead undoing his slacks and pulling out his cock. Dick's eyes go half-lidded as Slade strokes himself, and moans in pleasure when Slade grabs his jaw again, just as hard as before, before shoving his cock into Dick's mouth.

Like all the times before, Slade is far from gentle with him, fucking roughly in and out, holding Dick's head in place with unnatural strength. There's malice and hatred in every thrust of his hips, in the bruising grip on Dick's jaw and in his hair, and Dick _loves_ it, his own erection straining in his pants. He loves how he can't breathe, how someone who is a leader on the _"good"_ side is so very cruel with him.

It why he keeps coming back. Because it's _fun_ and dangerous and _painful_ and fucked up, and thus so very excellent. Because he likes to imagine Slade sliding into bed beside his wife after they're done, the woman none the wiser about what her husband's getting up to with an accomplished assassin. He likes to picture breakfast the next morning, how Slade will look at his young daughter and think about the boy only ten years older than her that he fucks on a semi-regular basis.

He likes to wonder about the interactions between father and son, if Slade is concerned about Joey's growing abilities, if Joey is managing to keep a lid on his jealousy every time he _knows_ Dick's been in their house, fucking his father.

Even if Slade wasn't so good at giving him exactly what he wants—the pain, the strength, the lack of care—these trysts would still be fun, because he'd think about the _happy_ little Wilson family, and how easy it would be for Dick to rip them into shreds.

And because one day he's going to be standing over Slade Wilson's body as the president slowly (and oh-so-painfully) bleeds out, and he's going to shove his own dick down the other man's throat instead (or maybe inside a gaping gut wound, Dick isn't picky) and come probably harder than he ever has before.

So, there's that.

Slade's hand tightens in Dick's hair, surely ripping some strands out and maybe even skin with it, and Dick moans around him, eyelids fluttering.

There's a faint click, and the door to the study opens.

Everyone freezes—Slade and Dick, in their quite compromising position, and the secret service agent currently standing in the doorway, staring at them with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

Dick grabs a dagger from his belt and throws it, hitting the agent right in the heart. He only watches for a second longer, making sure the man drops, and then turns his attention back towards the cock in his mouth.

But Slade's pulling out, and isn't that just a shame. Dick sighs internally, rolling his eyes, and starts making plans for after this; clearly Slade won't be fucking him tonight—morals, what a disgusting thing—but that doesn't mean he can't call up the other Wilson and get some satisfaction elsewhere.

Slade's hand wraps threateningly around Dick's throat, blue eye sharp with anger, mouth twisted into a snarl. Damn, they really are done for the night. And this was shaping up to be so much fun.

"What would you have rather done?" Dick croaks out, unbothered by the black threatening the corners of his vision. He'll probably have a ring of bruises around his neck later; the thought makes him smile, and he hopes it's bloody. "I doubt you want everyone knowing what their president gets up to with one of the world's most notorious criminals."

Slade releases him roughly, throwing him to the side, and Dick pushes himself to his feet, rubbing at his throat with an affronted expression.

"You need to work on your anger management," Dick tells him.

"Get out," Slade says between gritted teeth.

Dick smirks and inclines his head, but walks over to the secret service agent first, grabbing his knife. He wipes it off on the man's suit jacket and then tucks it back into its spot on his belt, before turning back to face Slade with a charming grin.

"Happy birthday, Mr. President," he says, bowing mockingly. "'Till next time."

* * *

The best part about fucking Joey Wilson (other than the knowledge that this is _Slade's son,_ Slade's psychotic son that he has no clue is anything other than his sweet little boy) is the jealousy.

When Dick shows up at the apartment of Kole Weathers (Joey's so-called "girlfriend", but Dick thinks "obsessive fuckbuddies" fits them better) looking for Joey, Kole gives him the stink eye but doesn't turn him away—she wouldn't dare—leading him to the balcony where Joey is currently...huh, torturing a rat. Good to know he's killing small animals in his spare time.

Why is it that Dick finds that creepier than watching Joey possess someone and then eviscerate them with their own hand? Because _that_ was sexy. _This_ is just odd.

Ah well. Self-examination can wait until another day; he's here for a reason.

Getting Joey to be violent with him is relatively easy; all he has to do is tilt his head to draw attention to the bruises around his neck, on his jaw, on his cheek, and the possessiveness will spark in Joey's eyes. Then just a casual reference to the White House to let Joey know _who_ left those bruises, and they're in business.

One day, Joey's possessiveness and jealousy will be more trouble than they're worth, because Dick _certainly_ doesn't belong to him. But right now it means Joey giving Dick exactly what he wants, slamming him face-first against the wall and shoving his pants down his thighs, just enough to reveal his ass.

And Dick lets him do it, moans when Joey clamps his teeth down on the base of Dick's neck, biting what is sure to be an impressive bruise later, crying out in pleasure when he pushes inside of him and starts a rough pace.

Dick purposefully moans Slade's name, just to see what happens, and doesn't suppress his grin when Joey's hand wraps around Dick's neck and _squeezes._ Joey didn't inherit his father's unnatural strength, which is a shame, but his enthusiasm almost makes up for it.

But even with all that anger and jealousy, Joey always gentles with him soon enough; such an attentive lover—Dick really will have to fix that. So each time Joey starts to slow, starts to relax his grip a little bit, Dick starts up a commentary about what it feels like when Slade fucks him, how different they are, how much _better_ the president is at giving Dick what he wants.

 _That_ certainly gets the desired result, and Dick laughs breathlessly when Joey slams his head against the wall hard enough to make Dick see stars. A rough grip around his cock paired with everything else has him coming, and he rides out the pleasure while Joey takes what he wants from Dick's now-pliant body.

When everything's said and done, Joey invites Dick to stay with a hopeful look in his eyes. But all Dick can think is that he inherited his dad's blue eyes, that he's soft in all the ways Slade is hard, that someday his possessiveness might get people killed while Slade would actually be relieved if Dick never showed up again, that he's _easy_ while Slade continues to be an exciting challenge.

"Another time," is what Dick says, because Joey is a powerful ally to have in his pocket, and it's not quite time to break him into a million pieces.

Dick's looking forward to when it is, though.

* * *

Thomas is awake when he gets back to the Manor, because of course he is. The man looks at the bruises that clearly paint Dick's skin expressionlessly, and Dick's heart speeds up a little. He's covered his tracks, Thomas can't know that Dick visited the White House, but Thomas always knows everything and this is the only thing Dick's ever kept secret from him—

"Good night?" Thomas asks, raising an eyebrow just a little, attention already back on whatever he's working on on the laptop in front of him.

Dick hums, thinking about how his jaw still aches from how roughly Slade grabbed him, how his chest is still throbbing from his injured ribs, and nods. "Yep," he confirms. "What about you? Another wild and crazy night in the owlcave?"

Thomas doesn't dignify that with a response, which Dick supposes is fair, and makes room for him when Dick throws himself down on the couch beside him, wiggling his feet under Thomas' thigh. Thomas' free hand reaches over and gently squeezes Dick's ankle, then remains there.

Suddenly, Slade's words from before pop into Dick's mind; _But considering the fact that you'd get on your knees and beg for his cock if he told you to, I think that goes a_ bit _past regular loyalty._

Thomas would never ask that of him, Dick's sure of it. Thomas cares about him, loves him like his own son. He'd never do anything to take advantage of their bond. He just—wouldn't.

But...if he ever _did_ tell Dick to do something like that...

Of course Dick would. He loves Thomas, he's loyal, he'd do anything for him. If Thomas wanted...that from him, he'd do it. Thomas saved him, after his parents died. Took him into his home when he didn't have to, spent time training him and taking care of him when he could've just left Dick to his own devices. He owes Thomas everything.

But it's a non-starter, because Thomas isn't like that. They're partners. Slade's just an asshole, but that's okay, because one of the reasons Dick keeps going back is because Slade is so very _sharp_ with him.

 _Partners,_ Slade's voice sneers mockingly in his head, and it makes Dick frown. He hates the fact that he's gotten inside his head, twisting something so very good between him and Thomas.

"Is something wrong?" Thomas asks, not looking away from his computer screen. His thumb starts rubbing soothing circles on Dick's ankle, his grip warm and solid.

Dick stares at that hand and shakes his head. "No," he says, only the second lie he's ever told the man he owes his life to. "Just tired."

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Poor Dickie has no idea that Thomas killed his parents just so he could have him.~~  
>   
>  Hope you guys enjoyed Day 2! See y'all tomorrow 😊


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